When you read a book, not a particularly ordinary book in this case. And each words written there seems to be etched upon your skins of thoughts. You mind scarred with its beauty, aching for more, craving to have written in equal aesthetic quality.
I can't help myself from stopping for a while, to gulp the fluid of words down my throat and move my hand to scribble the torrents down in blank pages.
Dead men's words have never been so alive, as long as the words he crafted live in the mind of those who reads.
